


The Moment I Knew

by Unitedcows184



Series: Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Furtive Festivity Donor Fics [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Manscaping, New Relationship, Post Mary, True Love, Uncertain Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 00:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14344458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unitedcows184/pseuds/Unitedcows184
Summary: New relationships can be confusing, especially when you're John Watson, you've just realized you're not not gay, and the object of your affections is the most maddening man in all of England! Whatever. They've been in love for 130 years. I'm sure they'll figure it out in this iteration.This fic was gifted to a donor of my short film, Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Furtive Festivity. Those who contributed $10 or more commissioned a Sherlock fic with the prompt of their choosing. Thank you to Mystal for the prompt 'angst'.Check out our twitter page @SherlockPPU !!!!! Our short film is just about ready to premiere! If you donate any amount you can get early access to the film. Wide release won't be until 2019!!





	The Moment I Knew

About a month after the inevitable occurred…

No, don’t be flippant. Call it what it is.

Twenty nine days after I quieted a raving Sherlock Holmes, frantic and pacing, spitting out angular and angry deductions, made with no intention of conclusion to a problem, or “case”—

In line at the Tesco where a detatched, increasingly annoyed checkout girl declined my (turns out) expired coupon for paprika crisps (his weakness, not mine).

Ever since I quieted him that day with a firm and settling kiss, a decision made in an all too rare moment of clarity, I had effectively been spending my time as Dr. John Watson, veteran, adrenaline addict, (retired) recreational rugby player, and Sherlock Holmes’ live in boyfriend.

It has been quite a month.

Anyways, ever since that day, I have observed a disquieting tension in my flatmate, accidentally turned love of my life.

Though I have no doubt in the reciprocation of the feelings I displayed that afternoon in the twelve items or less aisle, I can sense Sherlock doing his best to tow the line, keeping me in my roles of blogger and tea maker, while holding on to that tenuous lifeline of affection that we just barely managed to establish.

I’m no sentimental fool. Sure, I enjoy a bath every now and then, but I’m an English man. I don’t need love letters. In fact, it is enough, more than enough, that after his brief foray into life as a dead man, I can count on him as a constant in my life.

And, if I happen to get a leg over every now and then, who am I to complain? 

Sherlock is here, content, with me in Baker Street. I am the happiest man alive, if not a little bit concerned at potential for loss. I’m not sure I could handle it again. But for now, I know things have been good. Incredible.

I thought this new balance we had struck was working for us both, but twenty nine days in, I am sure of it. Sherlock is stumped, and I’m the only way out. 

However, right now I’m in the middle of cracking good fun Bond themed crossword in the Times…

“John?”

I’m no consulting detective, but I can read Sherlock the way he can read a crime scene. And right now, I can sense just the slightest, most adorable bit of apprehension. It’s so rare I can’t help but savor it.

“Nope. I don’t want your help. I’m really close. Plus I know you’ve deleted all the movies anyways.” I don’t even fold the paper down to look past at him.

“John, please. A moment.”

I sigh and put the paper down. Standing before me, in a short, fluffy robe I haven’t seen before, Sherlock eyes me nervously with— are those curlers in his hair?

“What’s all this?” I almost chuckle, but from seeing the look on his face, I can’t help but think his distress, however silly, is real and personal.

“I have been doing some grooming.”

“I can see that.”

He opens up his dressing gown and gives me an eyeful. “I found a reference guide for this online. It’s called manscaping, John.”

“Jesus, Sherlock!” 

He huffs and closes up while I put the paper down. Who needs puzzles when you’re with Sherlock Holmes?

He looks around, deflated, and then squares up. He says, quietly and with great effort, “Why is it you haven’t taken me on a date, John?”

What’s a five letter word for a freshwater fish? Ah, yes. Trout. My mouth is hanging open like a trout.

“Though I am an expert in innumerable fields of study, I regret to have to defer to you when it comes to romantic courtship. Was your display last month at the shops not an indication of a shift in our relationship?”

A curler falls from his hair and rolls sympathetically on the floor and under the sofa. Sherlock ignores it.

“Because the length and intensity of that kiss demonstrated more than just a means of interruption of a deserved tirade on one of England’s surely most disposable service persons.”

“She was right, though. The coupon was expired.”

“Damnit, John! I have exfoliated, moisturized, and briefly considered Restylane injections. What more cosmetically must I endure for you to get off your arse and court me?”

I close my eyes and curse myself. For all that I feel insufficient in our professional partnership, I never considered he could feel similarly in our personal one. I stand and brush the lone, errant curl from his face.

“I don’t know what Restylane is, but you don’t need it. Christ, you’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen. And I’d love to take you out and show you off to the world if I didn’t think that the second you saw, really saw, how much out of my league you are in the faces of our friends, clients, strangers, you would realize that I was just a stepping stone in some miraculous mid-life sexual awakening you seem to be having.”

Maybe I’m a little less self confident than I thought.

“Is that what you think? John, I am the most observant man in this world. I know what my options are. The rest fall up short. It’s not even close.”

I pull him down for an embrace and hide my relief tears in the crook of his neck.

“Is that what you needed to hear? That’s all. I’ve said it before, in front of everyone you hold dear. It’s you. You keep me right.”

“I love you.”

“Then take me out. You’re the one with the frankly alarming extensive sexual history. Where did you wine and dine all those girlfriends?”

“Museums, cooking lessons, segway tours. You would hate it.”

He pulls me up, smiles, and wipes away my tears. I have nothing to be afraid of any more.

“But look at me. All dressed up and nowhere to go.”

His phone buzzes. I nod, and he checks it.

“It’s Lestrade. A murder in Lewisham. Shall we postpone the segway tour, Don Juan Watson?”

And right then, I realize what I need, what we both need. The dangerous and exciting routine our lifestyle brings with that same undying and unwavering affection— but this time, not unspoken. I know who we are. And so does he.

“Let me get my coat.”

He swings on the Belstaff and heads for the door.

“Do hurry. I’ll grab us a taxi.”

He turns back and smiles at me, the real, warm smile, reserved for those rare time when he can’t help it and the joy pours out of him. Twenty nine days later and all the days that come after, that’s where I want to be.

But he never lets me finish my crossword. So I won’t remind him about the curlers.


End file.
